Villain
by beggars-would-ride
Summary: What would happen if Artemis still ended up somehow growing up a coldhearted criminal? Or perhaps, even worse than coldhearted.
1. Chapter 1

He had the being at his mercy.

The villain could nearly see the blood vessels bursting in agonizing strife under his victim's skin. The pathetic cretin stood on the verge of inane babble.

This was the climax. The moment of triumph. The moment where the victim's mind was so chaotic, the point in time when his nerves were stretched so tight, the second where he knew there was no way to win, the instant he truly realized the sheer futility: Breakdown.

The villain saw it literally, now. The man before him had red drops beading on his forehead. He was sweating blood.

He was on the brink. He had long passed the point of no return, knowing full well what he was doing. You see, that is the villain's way. He lets you think you can win. He lets you see _your glory_, he gives you your victory. And then takes it away. Completely away. And there is nowhere to turn. There is no-one to run to. The villain did not merely keep you from obtaining triumph, oh no. He allowed you one second, an instant to extend your hand towards the gold and know it was yours.

Then, the glow would be gone, and somehow you were to blame. It all went too fast, the world revolved out of control. Out of _your_ control. The villain was a genius. A genius without pity.

The villain had many names. Most of them were of his own design. No-one knew his real identity. Some accused the villain of being an android or robot. Some accused him of being an agent from a foreign government with biological weapons that were being tested for the next World War. Some accused him of being an alien. Some even named him a ghost. All were sure he was not human. No human could be capable of such cruelty. It was worse than murder.

The villain began to laugh. It was calculated. It started low. The victim looked up, but the serum had begun to take effect. The hapless creature dropped to his knees. He could lift his eyes only high enough to see a vampiric smile.

The laugh continued. It grew gradually louder. So gradually, so perfectly timed and practiced, that you could not keep track of the crescendo. Or was there a crescendo? Was it just inside your head? "_My head my head"_…then you see the eyes. Oh those eyes! _Take them away_! They pierce your heart like daggers._ "Everything else seems red red red but the eyes…"_ They are blue.

The laugh grows louder.

The villain knows it. He had stopped laughing minutes ago. He knows his victim is cracking. The figure's eyes are closed and their lids are wavering as they roll crazily inside his head. The mouth moves convulsively, but no sound comes forth. The hands shake, the fingers twitch. The knees are rigid, too rigid, and the victim falls to the ground. The same symptoms as the last. And the one before. And the one before that.

All have been the same.

The villain is indomitable. The world would fall to him. It would, at least, if he wanted it. But what is the use of that?

He needs but a little more to be content. He is close to his goal. He will reach his goal. The cliché "Enough is just a little bit more" was declaimed by a fool. He retrieves his prize as the foolish thing convulses on the ground. Mind has deserted him. He has gone mad. The villain has driven them all mad.

Straightening, the genius tugs at his tie. "It has been nice doing business with you. Good day, sir."

Dust motes outnumber oxygen molecules in the air. Two guards in the museum lobby spot some movement on the sophisticated surveillance monitors. They sit up, then slouch back and relax. "Mmph," mumbles one through a mouthful of jelly donut, "'s just the Fowl kid, 'gain."

"Yeh," says the other blandly. "That kid kinda creeps me out. Look, he's got an attaché case."

"Anatta-what?"

"Attaché, stupid. Yer so uncultured."

"I can't be uncultured; I work in a museum, idiot."

"You can work in a museum and still be uncult-"

The burglar alarum pierces the stuffy atmosphere. "Holy-!" The two guards look at each other. One screams "GO, IDIOT, or neither of us is gonna be workin' in a museum!" as they hurdle their recliners and splash soda in their haste to waylay a fiend.

Unfortunately, they rush right past a suited teenager carrying an attaché case.

Artemis Fowl.


	2. Chapter 2

Failure hurts most when it is your own fault. Artemis knew this. He knew this better than anyone. It was his fault all his friends were dead. Friends. He scoffed now at the word. He was being defeated, more completely with each passing day, by the psychology of which he had once been master. He had entered the denial stage of grief years ago, and such was his control over his miraculous brain that there he had remained. He refused to admit he had had friends. He refused to admit he had been friendless. He would not believe his surroundings had any effect on him, and he had none on them. Above all: he would not admit he was a flawed being. He looked the Grim Reaper in the face and told him he did not exist. Artemis' brain was so intensely keen, it could even fool itself.

He now used the knowledge his subconscious had gleaned from his horrific experiences to his own evil advantage. You cannot fight your own nature. This was the ever-present mantra that helped him choose his victims. They were each greedy, selfish, miserly. Each one—to Artemis' subconscious—was Artemis, himself. So Artemis kept punishing himself, driving himself mad, time after time, never realizing fully what he was doing. Pride was his only defense.

Artemis used his subconscious to help him plan, but he kept it tightly reigned in. He would not even allow it to roam free while he slept. Artemis Fowl had not slept really well for five years.

Except for that first night, when all strength had been drained from his body and soul, then his subconscious had seized total control. That first night, with all its feelings of almost visible guilt and shame, his eyes and skin seemed to drip pain and loss. Artemis Fowl, dry-eyed throughout infancy, had been rank with salty tears and sweat. His guilt was almost a physical being, a crushing weight threatening to destroy him by his own hand. He was destructive. And yet, as he unwillingly reviewed again the terrifying events in his mind, he realized with a deep horror that he would not have changed his mind. And so, unable to face his own character flaws, he became the most odious criminal the world had ever known.

That night was the only time he had ever racalled the horriffic occurrences with stabbling clarity. After that he dulled his subconscious and locked away the sharpest memories, leaving only remnants of feelings floating in his brain. But these remnants were enough to fundamentally change his entire persona.

Holly was dead. He refused to admit he had ever had a friend who had died. However, even a brain such as Artemis' could not erase something as powerful as the love of a friend, so instead, to Artemis, Holly had never existed. Artemis now lived in his starkly realistic fantasy world.

At this moment he was walking the streets, filtering through the crowds of New York. He felt an affinity for the city: it was buzzing, cold, ruthless, unemoting. Its alleys and dingy apartment buildings hid the most sordid of secrets. It was just like him.

Conquering this latest victim should have been exciting to Artemis, but the young man supressed all feelings and walked brickly on with a stony countenance. He turned a corner and slid into the back seat of a shining black Bentley. It pulled away from the curb. Artemis hunkered down in the seat and cracked open his attache case. Inside he saw a flash of red as the sun's rays caught the largest ruby in the world. It was a gem of priceless worth. To him, it was rubbish, bauble. How cliche it was that his lates victim, a man who had had so much, had prepared to sacrifice everything he had to possess this bloody stone. Artemis' eyes could not see beauty anymore.

Artemis shut and clasped the case. Straightening his posture he stared out the window. Cars in the other lane passed him, and he observed other boys his age looking with drooling desire at his vehicle. His eyes lost focus as his inner monologue overshadowed the outside world. 'Stupid, frothing creatures. All they care about is the aesthetic world. They know nothing of anything uderneath, of the deeper, truer, insides.' His unseeing eyes trailed along the emmaculate interior of the rented automobile. In his chest he discerned a fierce longing for a rusted, dented, two-door clunker with a muffler held on by duct tape and a peeling paint job in a horrid shade of yellow.

"Driver," Artemis said, "pull over." The driver did so, and Artemis got out and went around to open his door. The mustacioed man looked up at the teenager with a puzzled look.

"Sir?"

"I will drive, now. Have a seat in the back."

The chauffeur slid in to the plush finery that he, until now, had only glimpsed in the rearveiw mirror. He sat awkwardly, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, and wondering crazily what lay inside the attache case beside his left thigh.

Artemis positioned himself behind the wheel, shoving his beige trenchcoat into a lump on the passenger seat. His black-gloved hands gripped the wheel tightly, though his granite expression remained motionless and unreadable. Quickly checking his blind spot, he pulled out into the think traffic, not bothering to signal.

They were still in a heavily-traffiked area, and the taxi in front of him was obeying the speed limit. Artemis pushed the Bentley until their bumpers were nearly touching. The taxi driver made some crude gestures over his shoulder, and Artemis could read in the movements of the large man's jaw that he was shouting profanity. 'Let him,' Artemis thought. He began varying his speed, dropping away then closing in again. Artemis could see in the mirror that the young woman driving the car behind him was gripping the wheel white-knuckled, her face contorted in anger and nervousness. The mustacioed driver still sat in the back seat, wide-eyed and forgotten.

Artemis drove on until they reached the city limits. The crows' feet spreading from his eyes had deepened. He turned onto a cracked and unmarked road. It was straight, though, and he saw no-one in front of or behind him. His Italian shoe applied pressure to the gas pedal, only a bit at first, but soon it was to the floor as the addiction for speed took hold. The Bentley bounced crazily over raised cracks caused by the cooling and warming of the asphalt over many years. The world outside became an indistinguishable green and tan blur as Artemis urged the car faster still. The pressure of the pedal felt good beneath the sole of his shoe. The mad bouncing of his head and jarring of his spine gave him a shiverig thrill. He hunched over the wheel, his thin arms somehow strong enough to control the racing automoblie. They shot over a hill before the terrified chauffeur saw it was coming, and flew through the air. The nose of the car hit the pavement with a shower of sparks and a deafening scraping and grinding. The attache case hit the floor and one latch burst open. The passenger was too frightened to notice.

Atremis drove on and on, not caring where he was going. He expertly guided the huge, carreening vehicle around a tight curve, letting up only slightly on the accelerator. With a supreme knowledge of physics and a brain that could run intense calculations at a speed rivaled only by computers, Artemis could not be labeled "careless," even as the lust for speed pumped in his veins and the spedometer needle rocketed forward.

As he let adrenaline wash over him, a tiny bit of his subconscious leaked out through the dams in his mind. 'Crash the car,' it whispered, 'Crash it. End it all with a huge noise: a grinding, screaching, crunching, screaming, howling crescendo, a stunning climax. It appeals to you. You want it. Crash the car.'

Artemis blinked, just once. This was an expression of extreme mental duress. Slowly, almost painfully, he raised his foot off the accelerator and let it fall to the floor of the car with a slap. The black Bentley coasted for several miles, slowing quickly because of its size. When it had come to a complete stop, Artemis reached over and gathered his wrinkled coat. Opening the door, he slowly extended one leg, carefully setting his foot on the ground before extracting the other from the vehicle. He opened the rear door, leaned over, and said to the driver, "Take me to the airport."

The chauffeur, too shaken to inquire as to how far away they were from the airport, silently made his trembling journey back to the driver's seat. The man's mustache quivered as his hands hovered above the steering wheel for a moment before settling gingerly on it.

They pulled into a parking spot in front of the rental agency at the airport. Artemis emerged, stone-faced as ever, his beige coat draped over his arm, carrying the precious attache case, feeling nothing. The driver rolled down the window. "Sir?" he spoke quietly, "We nearly didn't make it back. We're almost out of gas."

Atremis' blue eyes glittered in the smoggy sunlight. "I know," he said.


End file.
